by Ava Claire
The Billionaire’s Lust (His Submissive, Part Seven)
Ava Claire
Copyright 2013 Ava Claire
The His Submissive Series
The Billionaire’s Contract (Part One)
The Billionaire’s Touch (Part Two)
The Billionaire’s Passion (Part Three)
The Billionaire’s Heart (Part Four)
The Billionaire’s Girlfriend (Part Five)
The Billionaire’s Secret (Part Six)
The Billionaire’s Lust (Part Seven)
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****
I reread the text twice, like the words would morph. Like it would hurt any less.
It didn’t.
Slammed...don’t wait up.
It was the second time in seven days that I would eat dinner by myself and probably go to bed alone.
Jacob was at the head of Whitmore and Creighton, a PR firm whose client list read like a Who’s Who of Hollywood and high society. I tried to convince myself that it was just work occupying his time. I’d seen the schedule, filled with back to back meetings. But it had been two weeks since I read the letter he wrote to his mother. Two weeks since I found out that the man I loved wanted to marry me--then changed his mind.
Two weeks since he started pulling away and spending more time at the office.
I dropped my cell on the granite countertop and went to the cabinet. I frowned when I saw that there were only a few crystal tumblers on the shelves. I pulled open the dishwasher, seeing rows of glass stems. My eyes flickered to the right where the recycle bin was filled to the brim with empty wine bottles.
I closed the door and swiped a tumbler, then filled it with water. I guess I was done self-medicating.
I was between a rock and a hard place. There was no way I could approach him about the letter without revealing that I'd betrayed his trust. Again. Even if I tried to explain and apologize, there was a risk that this would be it. The thing that pushed us off the cliff. The thing that would devastate us.
How much could he take? How many times could I disappoint him? If his letter was any indication, the answer was not much more.
My cell rattled to life on the counter and I launched to it, my heart beating a fever pitch in my ears. The sound became a whistle, and then it became nothing. It wasn't Jacob.
I accepted the call, trying to make my voice sound normal. "Hi Meg!"
"What's wrong?" She didn't buy it for one second.
"Oh everything's great!" I lied, still not ready to give up the charade. I took a swallow of the water and forced a smile, like my best friend was standing right in front of me. Who was I kidding? If she saw right through me when I barely got two words out over the phone, I wouldn't fare well in person. There was no use pretending I had it together--not with Megan.
"I made dinner." Well as close to dinner as I’d get. I'd whipped up some Velveeta mac and cheese, steamed veggies, and managed to not completely dry out two chicken breasts. "Jacob's pulling an all-nighter though so it looks like a table for one." My nostrils stung and I knew I was close to crying. Table for one.
And it was just what I deserved.
"Well that’s actually kind of great!” she said excitedly. “I wanted to know if you wanted to grab a cab and meet me at Lucy's?"
I perked slightly when I zeroed in on the sound of music and conversation weaving in and out of her invitation. “You’re at Lucy’s?”
"After the day I had I needed a margarita. And salt. And endless salsa and chips," she said with a chuckle that sounded off but I chalked it up to background noise.
I was so on board. I would have been down if she’d named a fast food joint instead of our favorite taco restaurant, Lucy’s Taqueria. Anything to get out of this house and away from the sad sight of plates languishing in the dining room. Anything to finally talk about the monstrous secret threatening to rip its way out of my chest.
I told her I’d be there in ten and swiped my purse from a stool in front of the bar, dropping my phone inside. After sliding my feet into a pair of flats and grabbing my jacket, I shut off the lights and made my way to the elevator. Downstairs, I gave the doorman a smile and didn’t even have to wave my arm before a taxi pulled up to the curb. I told him the address and settled into the seat, watching the city pass me by.
I swear, everywhere I looked I saw romance and love. Couples hand in hand, vendors selling bright flowers, smiling families; shiny, happy people. Even the taxi cab driver was humming along to some cavity inducing song about finally finding true love.
I pressed my lids together, repeating ‘chips and alcohol’ over and over like a mantra, trying to combat the sadness that filled me like a poison. Once you get there, you can climb out of this cab and unload all this drama. Get some clarity.
That thought was what kept me breathing and passing the driver the fare instead of getting him to make a U-turn and take me back to the apartment. Or one better--to Whitmore and Creighton where I’d finally tell Jacob about the letter and stop carrying the guilt like a shackle around my neck. I wanted to find out where we really stood instead of teetering on the edge, waiting for a gentle breeze to send us spiraling to our doom.
Lucy’s was always filled to the brim, the walls screaming as loud as the music that poured from the speakers. I scanned the restaurant until I saw Megan in a booth near the back, hunched over a margarita like you’d have to pry the drink from her cold, dead fingers.
I pulled my mouth into a smile that dropped just in time for my eyebrows to leap when I saw that she was on her third glass.
“Is there a holiday tomorrow I don’t know about?” I asked her, concern putting my issue aside. She was a pretty relaxed drinker, even back in school, so watching her pound ‘em back was like watching a pig take flight before my very eyes.
“Is there?” she said, looking at me like I would be the one to know such things. She fondled a button on the front of her cardigan then shrugged her shoulder, resuming sipping. “Just had a long day.”
Our waiter zipped to our table, dropping off a second bowl of chips and menu, saving her from my narrowed gaze.
"Could we get a pitcher of strawberry margaritas?" Her Cheshire like grin tugged so high at the corners that it looked painful. "I know my bestie is parched."
He let out a nervous chuckle and his eyes darted to me. I gave him a nod of approval and asked for some water.
"So nothing's wrong," I said, my voice lined with disbelief. "You were just craving Lucy's?"
"Mmhm," she said, crunching on a tortilla chip. As soon as she swallowed she went back to work on the rest of her drink. "Don't worry about me, Lay. I'm good."
Even though the table was a crime scene of evidence to the contrary, I didn't fight her. Not when I had something to drink about myself.
"I need to tell you something before I completely lose my shit."
Something flitted across her face. Nah…it was nothing. She was practically begging me to spill about Jacob, I could tell by the way she was studying me.
She gestured for me to keep going. "Well, don't leave me hanging."
“I read a letter Jacob wrote to his mother.” I inhaled deep and exhaled. "I'm pretty sure he was going to ask me to marry him."
Her emerald glazed eyes widened and her jaw practically dropped onto the festive table. “H
e what?!”
I wasn’t expecting ‘mazel tov!’ or a suffocating hug. I hadn’t even expected to say it just once and have it go down since she was swaying back and forth to some invisible mariachi band. But this wasn’t a happy kind of shock, the OMG that every girl hopes to share with their best friend when her special somebody pops the question.
I was seriously worried that her face would be frozen in a contortion of surprise and horror if she held her expression any longer, so I clarified. “He didn’t ask me to marry him. He was going to ask me to marry him. As in, has no current plan to ask me.”
She relaxed immediately, sighing with relief as she raked a hand through her red locks. “Oh thank God.”
“Oh thank God?” I repeated. “I’m glad one of us is so relieved about it.”
She propped her chin on her palm, giving me a single glare that was full of no-nonsense. It was a look I was sure her students were familiar with.
“This doesn’t have anything to do with relief, Leila. This has to do with the fact that two weeks ago you were lying and kissing another guy.”
My eyes darkened. “I did not kiss Cade. He kissed me!”
“And I’m sure he put a gun to your head.” She dropped her timbre, whipping out her best Arnold Schwarzenegger. “And said, ‘Come with me and fulfill your barely masked attraction’.”
I pressed my lips into a line, biting my tongue. Clearly she was drunk and that’s why she thought this was one big joke. Sure, there really wasn’t anything ideal about this situation--like how Jacob hadn’t technically asked me and had doubts about our relationship—but we belonged together.
The waiter brought the pitcher over and I was surprised Meg didn’t leap from the table and kiss him. She refilled her glass then filled mine to the brim. I brought the straw to my mouth and sipped, hoping the chill of it would cool my anger. Nope. Still pissed.
“You can give me silent treatment all you want,” she sighed, “But I know the truth.”
I dredged my eyes to hers. “Is that right?”
“Yup,” she answered, not mincing the words she didn’t slur. “I get that you’ve been trying to convince yourself that you have no feelings for Captain America, but you’re lying to yourself.”
“I see. I guess Dr. Scott is in? Here to help me address my deepest, darkest desires?”
“They really aren’t that deep.” she shrugged. “You snuck off to have coffee with him, then you two kissed. I’d say that’s pretty out in the open, surface stuff. And before you go into who kissed who--” she added when I opened my mouth, “--what does it matter? You can’t marry someone when you’re running from yourself. How can you make a commitment to Jacob or expect him to make a commitment to you when there are all these unanswered questions?”
“I have answers,” I spat. “Ask me if I have feelings for Cade. Ask me who I want a future with.”
“Can you be around Cade and not think about the kiss?”
Her question stunned me because it was the same one that I’d been asking myself when he came to my office. There was a reason I couldn’t look at him. That I didn’t want him near. That I didn’t want him to touch me.
But I wouldn’t admit that. Not to my bff who was trying to play amateur psychiatrist. Not to myself.
“Yes I can.” I said, unblinking. “I can be around him and not think about that stolen kiss.”
She dunked her chip in salsa, stirring it around slowly. “You answered my question when you didn’t reply as soon as I asked. If you have to think about it, then you’ve got some stuff to figure out.”
“I’ve already figured everything out,” I said tersely. “I choose Jacob. End of story.”
“I hear you--”
“No, I don’t think you do. I’m not sure if it’s because your comprehension is mush from your current vacay in Margaritaville or because you don’t want me to be happy, but I’m not going to sit here and explain myself to someone who can’t even hold onto a single guy.”
I covered my mouth, hoping, praying that she was too busy crunching on chips or the music snuffed out what I’d said.
But the red in her face, the hurt set of her lips and the tears gathering in her eyes proved I’d hit my mark.
“Oh god Megan, I didn’t mean--”
“Please,” she sliced in, ice around every syllable. “You’ve already insulted me once. Don’t sit here and lie to my face.”
“I didn’t mean--”
“You meant exactly what you said.” She brought her purse to the table, ruffling through the contents. Probably searching for something to bludgeon me with. I couldn’t believe I went there. What the hell was wrong with me?
“You’ve been holding onto that little morsel, haven’t you?” She snatched her wallet from her purse. “Ever since Brad.”
Brad Haniford was a bouncer at a bar we used to frequent near campus. It had been lust at first sight for the two of them that became something more—but not enough to curb Brad’s one nightstands.
They’d argue, they hated each other; they made up, they loved each other. He swore he’d never do it again...until he did. Over and over.
I knew she still loved him, even though he was toxic; even though any sort of relationship would do more harm than good. And I’d just thrown that fact in her face.
“I’m so sorry Megan.” I’d been saying those words so much lately that they’d tattooed themselves on my tongue. When she scoffed, I didn’t blame her. I had to stop hurting the people I loved—or I’d lose them all.
“You know, I want to believe you.” she said finally. “I need to because otherwise you’re a stranger to me. The Leila I knew would have never, ever went there. Even in anger.” A tear spilled down her cheek and she swept it away, leafing through her wallet. “We don’t lie to each other. We might lie to our guys, to ourselves, but we’re best friends. And I wouldn’t be a friend if I sat here and pretended like you’re ready to ride off into the sunset with Jacob. I know you love him, Leila. And maybe you don’t have feelings for Cade. But Jacob doesn't trust you. And he shouldn’t.”
I felt the tears rise in my throat. “That’s not fair.”
“Maybe. But it’s the truth. You’re the one that’s keeping secrets and reading letters that don’t have your name on them. He would be insane not to have questions.” She dropped her money on the table. “And I was insane to think that maybe you’d be a friend to me tonight.”
She started to slide out of the booth and I started babbling, not wanting to lose her. To prove that somewhere along the way, I hadn’t gotten lost in all of this. “Is it Brad because if it is--”
“Jesus frickin Christ, Leila!” She laughed, but there was no joy in any of it. She was disgusted. Angry. “It had nothing to do with him. If you weren’t so busy playing PI with a man that has proved his love, you would have known that I’m seeing someone. That I’ve been seeing him for a month, but I’m pretty sure it’s over now. Just once, just for tonight, I needed my best friend.” She stood up, her pain streaming down her face. “Thanks for a great evening.”
****
“My mother is where?”
I could tell the involuntary, Jacob ordered truce Natasha had agreed to was shaky from the way she cleared her throat. Like she was struggling against the desire to hang up the phone or tell me that she wasn’t my secretary.
“The front desk just called up here and there’s a woman downstairs who claims she’s your mother.” Before I could react or say the words myself, she threw a clipped ‘You’re welcome’ my way and hung up the phone.
I clutched the receiver, not believing my ears, even though I knew if Natasha was joking it would go something like:
Knock knock/Who’s there?/You’re fired...finally.
That meant that my mother had taken the train into the city and was down in the lobby and probably talking the security guard’s ear off. Or anyone that slowed long enough to fall in her trap.
And then I remembered...the production team was filmi
ng today.
I’d never moved so fast in my life. If I trusted my legs to get me down the flights of stairs without breaking my neck I would have said screw the elevator altogether. Luckily, it zipped to the lobby in record time and I was off, moving like I was on a track in tennis shoes instead of skating across the marble floor in heels.
Fred Lyons, one of the security guards, was eyeing my mother warily but she didn’t even notice because she was engrossed in conversation with one of the producers of the show.
“Mom!” I tried for cheerfulness, but my voice cracked on the last bit.
‘Ma’ was close enough and she spun to face me. She was decked out in a slick navy sheath dress, her gray lined dark hair pulled into a bun. She’d even gone light on the makeup.
“Leila!” She leaned in and gave me a peck on the cheek, but my eyes didn’t leave the show’s lead producer, Marla Waylon. The woman had a shit-eating grin plastered on her face, clearly moments from promising my mother on-camera time if she convinced me to reconsider doing a segment for PR.
“I was just saying hello to your lovely mother,” Marla said innocently.
I bet, I thought with an eye roll. “Well, I know your team is busy filming today so we’ll get out of your way.”
I tried to steer my mother toward the elevators, but she didn’t budge. “Ms. Waylon was saying that she’d love five minutes of our time.”
“That’s nice,” I said, wanting to give Marla a piece of my mind, but not wanting to start a scene or be disrespectful around my mother. “I have a busy schedule--” Anticipating Marla’s next play, I finished, “--and I want to give my mom the VIP tour.” I knew the words ‘VIP’ would at least give me time to get Mom in the elevator. I took the visitor badge from Fred, mouthing ‘thank you’ as I shepherded her away from the cameras.
“That Waylon woman was a real sweetheart,” Mom piped.
I covered my snort with a cough. ‘Snake’ was a better noun. With midnight hair and near black eyes, she was a force to be reckoned with. Marla would sell her first born for a ratings spike. If you were a nobody you didn’t exist in her universe but if she thought you’d make good TV, get on board or get run over. I’d put her off as long as possible, but I knew eventually I’d have to tell her no and face her wrath or just bite the bullet and agree to be on camera.
